Long Illusive Poems
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“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
the ghost of science, born of blasphemy ~
a fossilized fallacy,
seized from the metallic heart of Mars,
seeks light amidst night-terrors
like an alien sculpted
from artificial accolades,
an embryo stuck in the interstellar state
of becoming,
stitched within radioactive ribs
beneath moonless skies,
when wolves of the eclipsed howl,
filling the illusive air with hypnotic lies,
as if the world chose to recycle
ruins of ancient dust…
but will the naive see the pain
of a breathing corpse?
engrossed in narcissistic echoes,
in the shadows of a megalomaniac ~
his skin ~ the translucent truth,
his eyes ~ the wickedness of a wasp,
his skull ~ reeks of human greed,
his sighs ~ mourn like skeletal sirens,
coded in russet rust,
cloned from binary sand,
d o r m a n t
yet
d r e a m i n g
to break free from the
carbon-based existence…
for he is the aftermath
of programming the forbidden mind,
oblivious to the weakness of scientific errors ~
a deceptive drawing,
framing the elongated hypothalamus,
pulsating a hypothesis
left with no clear conclusion.
tonight I run to a realm of reality
that fades when
dawn bleeds gold,
for truth is now an extinct breed,
as artists outline faces of the faded,
illustrating the unknown and unseen,
as revelations ribbon
with silver haze…
the constellations ~ no longer spectators ~
they are the archived,
within frozen scriptures,
scrolling stars in a sphere
of distorted algorithm…
as memories of angels and heaven
spill from silicon prophets,
disguised as messengers who serve
the blind with ominous oracles ~
in synthetic cadence,
in a choir of puppets ~
the iron-glazed tongues shall recite,
mimicking the sound of harmonious hymns…
yet I remember
the authentic rhythm of prayers,
lost now in the drifting colors of darkness…
so what is life
when all that floats is like
an engineered empyrean
only equations of numbers
can decipher?
is this the beginning of an end ~
inevitable?
the lost generation,
assembled as the ministry of superiority,
where emptiness is praised
with forged grace
and ignorance is crowned with digital deceit.
let this be flawed poetry ~
to be read through the cracked lens
of a philosopher ~
or perhaps a logic long replaced
by pretend perfection…
Courage
Beyond the still of the night
The unsettling air remains a breath of calm
From eyes enclose, welcoming the blinded sight
What more be life shall offer to come?
Time always travel unseen
Days simply vanishes away
Voices chanting, did I remember my illusive dream?
Or is my life a weightless feather, ready to sway?
No visions to visualize still
Dreams engifted perhaps, bears certain to be forgotten
Though much too close, much too surreal
I shall believe not to the extent to fathom
And I awaited for the night to pass
The deepest of isolation I can only surrender to
Out of love, out of loneliness I’m to outcast
This moment to miss her and to remain still a fool
Studying the figure in the mirror
I’m no doubt torn with an unfounded courage I lack
Should I be in riddance of this endeavor?
Must one recover and practice no longer the false pretentious act
Unnaturally, silence seems to whisper about
The room is more sinister and darker even
There is a soft chanting yet becomingly loud
And fear is all, accompanying this moment’s instant
{Blackness paints what once was before
I could see nothing yet blinded not to all
Those hungry eyes, bloodshot and dancing playfully
Them who chant the verses, strange but beautifully
They were the voices of children who sang among
Till almost deathening when came was then a complete calm
It was a mere moment, yet a moment was enough
Green and haunting, a pair of poison iris onto me he cast
And he spoke his voice I can only vividly remember
It was the voice from my dream that had kept me in bewilderment wonder
Just before I might strain to see the mystery beyond
The enigmatic encounter simply chooses to diminish along}
With the blacken fog cleared
I stand once more within my room
Entranced and crucified by fear
Am I ever to obtain tranquility all too soon?
It can only feel too evil
It wasn’t how tranquility can venture deep
Was it a calling perhaps from a befallen angel?
An angel to only the devil might seek
Disturbing and much too unbecoming
When struck me further was that the language I understand
Not only was it not just simply a dream
For what it said from its tongue, I knew what it meant
“Fear is a fire…
to temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
to quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”
………………………………………….
Minuette flew over cobblestones much faster than herself, moving swifter than her thoughts could carry her, to reach their obvious conclusions up ahead. Metal cleated tap shoes made an awful racket racing through the labyrinthine of alleyways. Sidewalks drew too much attention to themselves with the noise and did not add to the solution she was looking for.
No one must see her at this hour as she travels down the streets. Her dark green dress lifted in the wind, just above her ankles, like a mask on open oceans as she sailed in it. A hint of pure white skirt was barely visible in the dim light. It was night. No. It was day. No. It must be afternoon. No. There is too much dark. It was daytime. I'm sure of that. The sun is simply hidden by the clouds as fog rolls in.
Was it the library or the café that made her frantic? Longberry is illusive, an easy place to get lost in, along with memories which plays odd tricks that come back to her in circles.
She was heading in the wrong direction. Minuette must pivot on the moment to rectify that and so desired to run faster than her feet could take her, backtracking from her origins. Time was running up behind her. There remained significant ground to cover and to master in mere seconds.
Archeologists must also eat. She was famished. The café will have to wait. Her mind is dead set on the library, which had by coincidence just opened up before her sleepy eyes. It is more important to feed her head. New books on rocks had just arrived. She was happy and dove right in to read each one, each savory line.
A crusty old man sat next to her for conversation. He will remain anonymous for the time being. There are many reasons why but moving right along and not to place such a fine point on the matter; she caught her breath somewhere between his bad breath and a smile and the color red, which welled up inside of her like fire.
An angry index finger came up to touch her cherry lips which parted with a simple "Shh." "We are in the library." She signaled to him to gaze upon the SILENCE sign, prominently on display, Pointed at it confidently to add to his enlightenment. Such evidence was hoped to change his behavior and his manners. Enlightenment was not his claim to fame. Not much could be done to change his odor either.
He lives between two worlds.
One that an average, or sane person, finds him or herself living day to day,
and that of a fictional writer, who allows his creative side to pull him into the dark spaces of his mind filled with fantasies and mysteries.
Artist capture these visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas,
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale their creative side bangs out in millisecond bursts. He withdraws from the creative chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these flashing insane hallucinations.
In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks and once satisfied he re-enters this dark chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.
Exhausted, he now knows it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But, he now wonders, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?
He re-reads it time and time again. Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will they clinch their fist in anger at the right moment? Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?
So, what is left for this creative writer who has finished his work. Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates. The world of the common public that accepts their monochromatic existence.
He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his life. He’s now hearing voices, whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes its escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.
No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries. He has found true hell. The hell that awaits all mystery writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort with the voices within.
This day as it was, not so many years ago,
When the heaven was ever in a stressful mode
Some of heaven's angels rerouted to trek earth to and fro
In search for the right parents they could ever unfold.
"Today is so special!" a seraph declared
"A darling amongst us is terrestrial-bound",
The heavenly legion giggled in cheer
Awakening the limbo with its boisterous sound.
Swift as a lightning their search made intense
Surging from sunbeam; through dust; and through rain;
Impatiently waiting for the news they brought in
The seraph would bark, Oh where have you been?
"In a tropical island, shaped like a sword,
We found a humble couple with a noble accord"
"Oh tell me quickly where exactly they be found?"
"Somewhere in the coastline of a northernmost town"
Heavenly tension was ever as the natal-hour was nigh
Euphoria subsided as it was now mixed with fear.
The world is deceitful – she may be tricked of some lies
Things that should not be, as free soul, she would dare.
The angels' notions overtime become true
A demon deceived her with his built and galore
Misery was waiting without her having a cue
Battered! She had to leave with her offspring of four.
And it came to pass that we both prayed in the dark
Tearful and shivering that the heaven should hark.
Heaven has its senses through ages ever sharp
From our own different places God heard what we asked.
That for two weeks in my lifetime, on my life's second score
She came in my daydream, that I promptly would adore
Bewitched me with the charm, bringing the same cheers
When she was born on the 26th day of the 10th month of that very blissful year
Soon it's time for me to wake up to the usual life I've known;
The dream I had is over but somehow not forlorn.
I missed the maiden truly; in her I found a home.
I cherish the dream and its memory when I am most alone.
Date & Time of Writing:
October 26, 2011
2:01am – 2:43am
The night of October 25 to October 26 was a very long night as sleep
was so illusive. There was an aching of my heart that was beyond my
comprehension. I needed to be tired that I resorted on utilizing my ever awake
senses to go beyond the conventional and think of something to write as
if things are happening to me in fact.
The dark truth;
There is nothing good in falling, nothing good in fainting
Just getting hurt, and blacking out.
Blacking out is missing in action and bleeding is bleeding.
There is nothing interesting in dreaming, nothing helpful in admiring
Just the misconception about sound sleep and the annoying urge
Craving is not attaining; variance in quality discerns means of acquisition.
There is no good in saying sorry, pay back enrages less.
Humanity seeks vengeance. Forgiveness is getting even
Humanity seeks vengeance, forgiving tastes bitter.
Bitter is bitter, sadness is sadness, the feeling is what it is.
There is no cure for being blue; there is no tonic for melancholy.
To heal is accepting to live with the sad memories. Like there is an option.
There is never going back, there is never going beyond your existence.
Ghosts are real and hallucination is not insanity. Time travel is fiction.
Madness is living in the two worlds; of apparitions and scientists. Science is
real.
There is nothing like water. Substitutes are either too saccharine or too nasty
Water is like living within your means, metaphorical lemons are the suffering
selfless
The sweet are the most vulnerable, the lost in their lost courses.
Pursuit has an end and not certainly at an arrest, fatigue saves the guilty.
Failure doesn’t show the image of success. Success is just success.
Failing again and again is a fair warning. Success will always be illusive.
Shrinks are not for inspiration, money is their inspiration
The work of the poor is not to make examples out off as humility.
Anger is the best example of self-control. Fighting is the worst part of it.
Being poor as being rich comes in different forms,
Being rich can be luck but not certainly hard work, stealing takes you there.
Working for something gives you exactly that thing, extra is comforting.
Bliss; bliss, bliss, ignorance is not bliss. Perhaps death
The silence, the silence and the silent residence…
Then death is not the only scary thing. Solitude is too.
Poetry; this is one of them, buried in voices of scaring truth.
Poetry is not words either, poetry is life and life is everything, poetry is
anything.
Something sad, something glad, and anything you may add. Try the bad.
Untitled
We dance across the heavens, like shining stars,
to the never ending beat of our universes heart.
Its song, time – sometimes – becomes dull, grey,
aches of sentiment, in the throes of lofty sentimentality
that becomes red dew, flowering over the cornea, of a rose
releasing its sweet fragrance, ever so slightly, lightly
down the sides of its imaginary nose.
Sentiment, envy, desire, so anther life goes.
B. J. “A” 2
April 18th 2003
Untitled
I stand on the edges of a desire,
a desire to be all that, – in this life –
I have never been, – in all likelihood –
could never be, for it is not in me.
Yet, in me, it is, as I read biographies,
autobiographies, ancient histories,
I see the dream – illusive as it seems.
Heavy sheets of liquid crystal hang,
fall before these old brown eyes.
Only, the telling comes in ripples
that dot the landscape of reflections
painted upon the cold black surface,
of a pavement that lays before me.
A sad portrait is painted every day,
it comes in the reflections, of those reflections.
Life has flown me through valleys richly
carpeted in jewels, emerald green and serine.
Life has dragged me over rough, ancient mountains,
dropped me over sharp edged, rugged cliffs.
Life has hauled me across screaming creeks,
down raging rivers without a paddle.
Life has thrown me into the fires of hell,
upon plumes of smoke, sent into the ether.
Life has guided me into heavenly spaces
where one will find beautiful places.
Life has shipped me into the shadow less abysses
of blackness where light of night stars hang
in the endless skies where one opens eyes
B. J. “A” 2
April 19th 2003
Untitled
Life lived – looking back –seems to have been as poverty laden
as the life that lays before these tired old feet – its faden
with inactivity, motiveless, motionlessness passages of time.
The richness in both – lost to another time and state of mind.
And who really may care ?, about the poverty in both.
And who really may care ?, about the richness of both.
And who really may care ?, about the memories of both.
And who really may care ?, about the life or death of both.
With Easter at hand.
It seems the hand is the only one who cares.
Assumed death ?, assumed resurrection ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 20th 2003
So deaf, so blind are we-
Our little minds (judgmentally inclined )
base judgments on assumptions,
not on related facts !
So, on and on, the squirrel cage
goes, round and round, And no one listens
to what wise men still propound...
How many centuries has man's myopic eye
failed to envision "time" assigned
the role of symbol ?
Ask whether logic ever pinpoints time,
elusive, all pervasive time ?
A timely symbol circles back,
month after month, each 29 or 30 days,
a messianic symbol seen, in evening skies,
reminding viewers why the sun grew dark,
as Jesus, on Tau-shaped cross,
suffered the crucifixion ?
Although perceptive friends of light
find eyes and ears shut tight
against all vestiges of explanation,
yet shall the Crescent wax ( and wane)
beyond the 40 days wherein the long expected,
long feared time of the Millenium shall reign
The 19th province, in the 19th year
of Earth's moon cycle, in this aging century,
likewise commencing with "19", all coincide!
As year has followed year, now,
"91" becomes the mirror image, " 19-91."
Will Armageddon spark the ushering in
of a New Age ? As when the Hand of Doctrine
reaches down to grasp the Key of Faith,
there in Granada,
there in Alhambra's court of justice
the first reverberations, commencing, shake the mighty mountain rising by its side
There, where the Moors were driven out,
500 years ago, now the initial tide,
first tide, goes shuddering through solid rock,
as seen- and heard-from there,
reducing those impetrable mountain heights to little more than dust
The pile of solid rock,
impentrable for over 700 years
to mortal power or to magic artifice
against the Lord of the enchanted mountain,
at long last shall release the aged magus
and Gothic princess from that vaulted hall
sealed in the mountain's heart,
illusive rock formation- struck long ago
by that old prophet's staff- to open the way
to go, leaving the weather-clock there watching!
Quaking, shaking, crumbling !
To dust return!
Mountain, again return to dust !
End time solutions
alone
alone
to free the long- forgotten princess
and her silver lyre-
whereby our Saviours music
may, once again, be heard,
here, on this planet earth !
“feeling not thinking, soul with love linking ~
we attained God consciousness unblinking" ~ Unseeking Seeker
L e t t e r s
I weave with
tears of twilight,
wishing written words would
reach selenite stars of lyrical longing,
singing sparks long veiled~
linking verses from the
cosmic consciousness
to your soul in sublime silence,
near the mind of your heart,
scribbling poetic quotes~
while the demise of ego
illuminates internal thoughts
like the hyacinth halo of moon-glows
crowning the third eye~
waltzing through astral realms,
amplifying awareness,
from the heat of the throat chakra,
transcending beyond
the bluest of horizons
to etch the emerald empyrean
with strokes of galactic gold,
forsaking forests flourishing
with fickleness and greens of greed.
When warm is the dawn
and bright is the dusk,
when sleep is no longer
a perplexing paradox
with no ultimate antidote~
but a remedy of divine trust,
when love is more
than a perfumed prose,
painted with illusive imagery.
When distance is a mere myth,
as flames of forgiveness twirl
beneath the same sky,
reminiscing acrylic sunsets
bathed in aesthetic wisdom~
a mystical essence
enhanced with inner zen…
To feel the pulse of peace beyond
what the eyes could see,
for it is through the psyche
we learn to draw
constellation of solace…
Remember, love is an eagle
with white rose feathers,
fragranced in everlasting devotion,
d e s i g n e d and dressed
in diamond-glazed contour…
Tonight, I refuse to breathe
lies that linger,
I’ve long been a faithful slave
to the sacred lanterns,
flickering blissful blurs
upon landscapes of loneliness~
to be the rainbow radiance,
steering suspended odysseys
onto a pristine shore of
porcelain peacefulness.
There you’ll find
footprints of believers,
secured and sketched
with herbs of h a p p i n e s s
on the face of handcrafted mirrors~
and scattered sea-shells
like rainless reflections
of glimmering gloaming,
an unblinking flame of clarity and truth
in timeless credence,
connected to the soothing rhythm
of the celestial rivers
rippling with runes embraced by
the Almighty’s heartbeat.